Dr Meera Saravana has been on the run for the last ten years due to a fatal misunderstanding. She ends up in New York, hoping that maybe this time everything will work out. But that's turning out to be impossible the more she gets involved with the...
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MEERA
The past week has been absolute fucking hell.
Ivan went radio silent, refusing to answer any of my texts or calls and I was growing more concerned for him.
The last time we talked was two weeks ago and the whole city had gone to shit a couple of days later.
Today was especially brutal.
It was a busy as soon as I walked in. I changed into my scrubs, tossed away my stuff, and hightailed it to the ER where patients kept coming.
I could already feel the fatigue before coffee even touched my lips.
Several casualties had come in first, some in really bad shape. Others treatable, like small cuts and bruises.
The nurses were keeping track of the patients, directing us to each other the rooms. Without them, this whole hospital would've been in chaos.
Dr. Salk and Dr. Jenner, the two doctors from the night shift, had come in to assist. Both a bit cranky from being woken up but quick to assist when Dr. Carlson assigned them to triage.
Blood was everywhere. I felt like I needed a Hepatitis shot after this was. The OT room where I was at was rife with palpable tension.
Currently one man in his late thirties had a gunshot wound to the chest was in bad shape on my operating table. Classic case of hemothorax and a perforated lung. Thankfully the bullet was lodged, meaning that it stopped some of the bleeding but the accumulation of blood was stopping him from breathing freely.
"I need a chest tube!" I reached my hand out blindly. Someone put a chest tube in my hand. I didn't see who, I just felt it to make sure that it was the right size. I felt along his ribs, counting the intercostal spaces. My fingers grazed the sixth space, just underneath his pectoral.
The smell of iodine could be smelt through my mask as I applied it over the area.
"Scalpel, Doctor Saravana?" One of my nurses asked.
I held my hand out and nodded. "Yes. Please."
I made a small incision about three centimeters at the site of the intercostal space, just wide enough to fit in a clamp and my fingers. Blood spilled out, coating my gloves hands. "I got it!" Samantha, the head nurse, started to dab the excess blood away.
"How's his vitals?" I asked as I slipped my fingers along side a clamp, trying to make a hole in the muscle and pleural fascia.
I needed to get this chest tube in now or else his vitals would drop further.
"No improvement." Samantha said, her hands on the gas bag. "Blood pressure I low, heart rate too."
"We need to get a move on." I said, glancing up at the EKG machine to check his vital. "He doesn't have much time."
